


blending

by hydrangea_arrangements



Category: Original Work
Genre: description of self hatred, personal piece, word vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28965903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydrangea_arrangements/pseuds/hydrangea_arrangements
Summary: a personal work from me to you





	blending

**Author's Note:**

> i'm trying to find ideas to write for. i can't find any, or if i find the idea i don't have motivation.   
> but i want to write. so please take my word vomit. thank you
> 
> sincerely, k

color. line. intricacy. object. wall. wall. window. window. window

wiwindowwindowwindowwindowwindowwindow

one glass pane, cut into two long rectangles vertically, divided into six pieces per half of the pane.

the morning light shines in through the window. glorious and warm, it happily signals the entrance to a new day. as the sun begins to rise the dread of tomorrow rises with it. then the happiness of the morning follows like it's dragged along, battered and bruised but still optimistic. it basks the room i sleep in in a golden, glittering glow, a sort of half-gentle 'good morning', half-coarse 'get out of bed you disgusting piece of shit'. i take the latter half personally and wrap myself in my sheets until i can no longer hear the sound of someone screaming in my ears to get up.

as expected as it might be from someone like me, i can't convince myself to get up before noon. a haze lingers in my vision no matter how long i've been awake. i can sense every intricacy in the objects around me. i can see every crease and fold in these bedsheets, every movement of the trash bag that has yet to be emptied flowing in the artificial wind created by the speeding blades of a ceiling fan. and yet it's not intricate, it's not beautiful, it's barely even an object the way i see it. it looks like scraps of reality mixed with incomprehensibly flat planes stretched across my vision. things cut out, sewn, glued onto this torn up piece of paper that my vision is. it's all i see nowadays. this room bathed in oily pink and yellow tones. the afternoon sky soaks whatever it can manage to touch here with it's blue tones. i stare terrified at the light that is beamed onto my walls, unable to clearly think why.

to spare you the frankly unnecessary details, my existence isn't one you could call 'ideal', especially now, right when i begin to notice that every day feels more and more like it repeats. the sun in the sky still shines. the snow on the window pane still freezes, the trees outside are still dead. and i, stagnant as ever, continue my routine exactly the same as they do. to some extent, i could be part of the intricacies of life. you know, the things you only notice upon second glance. the things that were meant to be there the entire time but you never noticed. it's difficult to explain.

if i could compare it to something, it would be as if i were a statue to a beautiful, large, professionally crafted landscape; imitating real life through artwork so thoroughly that at first no person on Earth believed it to be an actual painting. if you look hard enough, you notice lives in the background of the scene; a deer is feeding its young, a bear is scratching its back against a log as locusts begin to fly out of it. so full of life, so full of stories. and then there was me. you see, both of us would be put in a museum; though on my end it would be more 'i am artwork only because i am human'. the painting is there for good reason. the painting is beautiful, it's worth billions of dollars, because it's so intricately painted. and then there exists something in the same museum, still in the same vein of 'artwork', yet considerably less pleasing to the eye; me. we exist in the same period, we are both in the museum, but you could not compare me to the painting. you could, of course, look at me, as i am seated directly beside the painting, and you could tell me that i am a 'wonderful statue', but you could not even begin to compare the craftsmanship that went into me versus that of which went into the painting.

i exist as decoration, like someone sitting on the sidelines of a game you always go to, but you recognize me because i'm always there in the bleachers, not because i'm playing but because i'm just there. i borderline do _not_ exist unless someone witnesses me doing so.

the decoration that sits in bed and doesn't do anything weeps over the lack of productivity of itself, saying things like 'you should be ashamed, you rotten goddamn monster!' and 'you're worthless, you're garbage, why haven't you done anything yet?', and it can not dare hope to respond nor even _think_ to challenge it, because with every word it tells itself it sinks deeper and deeper into its bed, dropping like a stone every time a syllable even escapes its rotten maw, until it is so deep in it's own vortex of self hatred it could not dream to escape.

and, to escape these feelings of worthlessness, of doubt, of some hodgepodge of despair and tiredness, it sleeps. the day has passed this decoration by again. the sun dips itself under the horizon and the moon rears its ugly head into the sky, and as the golden glow of the sun disappears a lonely feeling replaces it. the world feels isolating at night; its friends are talking with each other, happy to be in company, delighted over discovery of new things. and then, it has sat there, for ten hours now, staring at the ceiling, thinking over and over and over that it would rather be dead while scrolling through the exact same three applications, squeezing the very last bit of addictive happiness it could get from social media before the emptiness catches up with it again.

inevitably, as it withdraws more and more from it's connections, terrified of saying something wrong, unable to connect, feeling like it's just too imperfect to have friendships, it puts their device down and slowly begins to fall asleep while thinking of how terrifying the morning will be. and so it never leaves. it repeats its mistakes over and over and over, because to truly let itself go from this cycle of self hatred it would need to reach out, and long ago the statue had cut its hands off so that it could never be able to reach out to someone ever again.

contrary to my pessimistic tone throughout this piece, i'm trying my very best to get better. of course, it's difficult. it will always be. my health is an uphill battle. i stumble down, i lose my footing, and sometimes i fall straight back to the goddamn bottom of the mountain, relapsing back into my old thinking habits. but recovery is still recovery. even if it's a little. celebrate your tiny victories. if you managed to go outside today, that's great. you're doing a great job. even if existence itself seems like it's stacked against you, you're always free to kick it in the balls and get a few clean hits off of it while it's recoiling.

\- k


End file.
